Curl up and die

Since everyone's been speaking of curling up and dying lately, the one image that's been stuck in my mind is that of a caterpillar. They don't exactly curl up and die, but they sure curl up a lot, don't they? There are so many kinds of caterpillars. There's the green one with the yellow belly you find in the odd pea pod, which you then proceed to chuck, aghast, at your sister, who then starts the waterworks. You get a sound hiding for that one. And then there's the thorny one. I say thorny because hairy isn't a good word and spiky wouldn't quite describe it. It's grey and has miniature quills which it thrusts into your thumb with a vehement 'Hah!' while you rummage through the garden leaves trying to locate a misplaced cricket ball, and tries to make a quick getaway along a bougainvillea vine. Unfortunately for the caterpillar, however, it lives under the delusion that it has great speed. Which it doesn't. So you can unleash your wrath on the sodding thing with a cricket bat and make sure it's nice and squished and juicy. Then you might rejoice with a jubilant 'Hah!' and some watermelon juice.

It was at times like these that I would go seek out Bula di. She lived on the bottom floor of my grandmother's house and was what families had for servants in those days. Part-help, part-distant relative and part wolverine. She was the bee's knees when it came to catching creepy-crawly creatures. She was the wasp's nipples. I once saw her catch a fat, haughty lizard by the stomach, without flinching, and chuck it into the drain beyond the window. The lizard was absolutely stunned. "Who dares disturb my slumber?" it might have wondered, and subsequently "What-Hey-Let me down-" and then it landed with a SLAP! on the wet dirt of the drain. The day was saved. The lizard had learned its lesson. You don't mess with Bula di. She was resourceful. She surveyed my pricked hand with a searching glance and then removed the lid of a parachute jar which magically contained some magic white powder, which she scattered all over my hand. Prickled - is another word you can choose to describe the thorny caterpillar with, but frankly, I don't really know what it means. 'Ow!' was my pre-emptive response, but there was no need for that. The powder made my thumb numb and she removed the thorns with ease. She was a genius, I thought, as I gazed with wide-eyed wonder upon the guise of Bula di. Later, I found out it was salt.

"It was salt!" My brother laughed in my face after Bula di had passed away, as I fumbled for a good argument to prove my case. But what was I going to say? "Yeah? Then why was it white?", "Why was it grainy?", "Why did it feel...salty?" People insist that I always called Bula di Bota di, but I refuse to believe it. One, because many a time was a rogue bumblebee that had buzzed into the Bula di's lair, trapped in an empty matchbox, whereafter I was made to meticulously go over the differences betweeen a Bolta and a Bula, the latter being the one with the exceptional oratory skills. And two, I was livid the day those ads spreading HIV awareness hit the billboards. There were retards on our school bus who thought it was fun to dial the toll free number and prank call 'Bula di'. Then they laughed the merry happy laugh of young children that burned my spleen. I loved Bula di and she was no fat, saree-clad bangal pishima with a superiority complex. But I have to admit, prank calling was fun. Years later, I found out it was an automated number we were prank calling.

The Marwari kids seldom deigned to travel the distance from home to school on our bus. For some strange reason, they chose to use their private cars. Say what you will about Marwaris, their kids bring the best tiffin known to mankind. The sight and smell of the samosas, dhoklas and poori-alus was no different from one you might encounter at a Sharma's or a Gupta's. Which is why Kaushal was left without food at break. He had a sleek, silvery tiffin carrier which drew too much attention. We used the time he took to carefully remove the lid and place it below the box, to seek out the best vantage point to pounce from. Then we scavenged. I liked Kaushal. His mother still calls me over for mathri and a special pickle made form chillies which she remembers I loved when I was a kid.

There's this guy in our batch, however, whom everybody calls 'Marwari'. It is not meant to be derogatory. I think it's unfair to Marus, they don't really have big noses because air is cheap. It is meant to be apt. He is a fat, sweaty mess of a person who eats his alu sabji and waddles to the gym and thinks he'll have a six pack in a week. His name is Saurav. He haggles with autowallas for 5 bucks and delivers sermons to the needy and smokers. In a nutshell, he is a chootball. There is no reason that I should mention him in this post apart from the fact that I spent 2 hours last night watching a movie of his suggestion which turned out to be THE WORST monstrosity any human being can contrive to force down the throats of living, sensitive people who are well capable of crying when there is need to. For as Shakespeare had said, "If you tweeze our nipples, will we not cry?" The rest of this post shall be a critical review of London, Paris, New York.















CRAP!